Shades of Memory
by ncfan
Summary: There was no sure end to silence, nor to his questioning of his own memories.


As regards to Amrod and Amras, I'm going with the published _Silmarillion _for canon as to their fates, which is to say that at the time of the Second Kinslaying, they're both still alive.

I own nothing.

* * *

Dior was young and foolish, and soon enough would pay for both dearly. He had ignored every letter, given so sign that he had even received them, though Maglor knew for a fact that he had—Maedhros wasn't the only one who had sent letters demanding that Dior return what was theirs, and his messengers had always returned saying that they had reached Doriath. The forces of the sons of Fëanor were now camped outside of Menegroth, doing their best to ward off the cold and keep a look-out for Doriathrin attackers, waiting only for Curufin's forces, who were delayed thanks to the weather, to arrive.

The skies above were dark, leaden clouds heavy with snow, and all the preparations had been made and taken care of. Maglor was heading back to his tent, set on getting some rest before it was time for the assault, but just outside of his tent, he paused, and sighed.

It would be the first time all seven of them, the seven sons of Fëanor, had been together in one place in a very long time. Family reunions were always interesting; something was always falling apart at the seams, someone was always upset or not on speaking terms with somebody else, and if it wasn't one thing, it was another. Ever since the Gap had been overrun, Maglor had been living with Maedhros again, who had been very surprised indeed when Maglor had shown up on his doorstep with household and soldiers in tow, but who had had no qualms about letting them stay with him. As such, Maedhros was easy to keep track of (though Maedhros would have surely argued that keeping track of the family was _his _job), and rarely was Maglor thrown by any of his older brother's doings.

The last time Maedhros had really done anything that might qualify as outrageous (by the admittedly skewed standards of their family, anyways) was about two hundred years ago when he had, out of the blue, started sending for Dwarven smiths to see about a prosthetic hand. Celegorm had speculated that he'd finally hit the "denial" stage of grief, and Curufin had protested about his brother going to Dwarves over _him_. Maedhros had eventually gotten over this fancy of his, but Maglor still considered it mightily strange, considering he'd never expressed a desire for a prosthetic before then and never did again afterwards.

Caranthir had some time ago (no one could quite pinpoint when) married an almost painfully young Moriquendë, and a couple of days ago, when he and his forces had arrived, he'd brought her with him—though in this case, considering who Maglor had shown up with, he didn't think he had much right to complain. The rest of them had first found out about her when Caranthir had taken shelter with the Ambarussa, who had been especially curious about exactly who the young she-Elf with him was. Unless Maglor recalled incorrectly, _that _was probably the last time they'd all been at one place at the same time, to take stock of the Elf their brother had married without telling them.

The Elf's name was Gladhrien. She was from a tribe of the Laiquendi, slight and silver-haired; not a drop of Noldorin blood in her veins, something that likely would have caused a great deal of scandal in Nargothrond and Gondolin had Caranthir ever cared to visit either of those places with his bride. She had as her cradle-tongue a near-indecipherable dialect of Sindarin for anyone who, as the sons of Fëanor had, learned to speak Doriathrin Sindarin. When Maglor had first met her, Gladhrien had had little Doriathrin Sindarin and even less Quenya. Ilmanis had taken her aside to discover that Gladhrien knew exactly five words of Quenya—and in the past few days, during quiet moments when Maglor had attempted to find her and failed, he suspected that that was where Ilmanis was, trying to communicate with her sister-in-law. Caranthir seemed to love her, and be fond of her, as fond as he could be of anyone, but the fact that the two of them could barely hold a conversation with each other had probably bothered the rest of the House of Fëanor even more than the fact that Caranthir had married a Moriquendë. _One can only hope that between then and now, at least _one _of them has learned to speak a language the other knows._

There were other things as well. The Ambarussa, sick and tired of living in Beleriand, were threatening to make good on their old threat to hop on a ship and try to sail back to Aman, despite the little matter of their having been indefinitely banished to Middle Earth; it was taking all of Maedhros's determination and patience to convince them that this would be a bad idea. Celegorm was currently refusing to speak to Maglor; when last they'd met, Maglor had needled him about his behavior towards Lúthien being so abominable that even his _dog_ had been ashamed and left him, and apparently Celegorm had been taking Huan's abandonment and later death pretty badly, enough so that he was still holding a grudge against Maglor for bringing it up. _And yet, the Ambarussa did exactly the same, and he's still speaking to _them. _What makes my words so much more hurtful than theirs, I ask?_

Probably the worst of the current family crises, however, was the matter of Curufin and his son.

None of Celebrimbor's uncles had heard from him since he had publicly disowned his father in Nargothrond, and by extension, the rest of the house of Fëanor as well. They had all tried to write to him, tried to get in contact with him, and had been summarily ignored. Curufin would say naught of his son except to snap that he hoped that Celebrimbor would choke on his own sense of self-righteousness. Despite this apparent indifference to his child's fate, one did not have to be especially discerning to see that Curufin was taking Celebrimbor's denouncement of him very much to heart; much in the same way as Caranthir, Curufin tended to become increasingly caustic and sharp-tongued, the more upset he was. Celegorm had informed his other brothers when he arrived here at Doriath (pointedly ignoring Maglor all the time, it might be added), that Curufin was still the same, that neither father nor son had attempted to contact each other, and that Celegorm hadn't heard anything from Celebrimbor either. Maedhros had expressed the hope that maybe something had happened that Celegorm simply didn't know about; Maglor felt much the same. _I would hope that they have indeed reached some sort of accord, even if it is only a strained peace, and not this interminable silence._

It seemed to Maglor that, in Valinor, such disputes would have been settled quickly, or at the very least with far less sorrow than they had thus far wrought. Then, Maglor remembered that in Valinor, they had had their mother and grandfather, who were able to easily smooth over the bad temper and injured pride of any of their descendants. Then, he remembered that it was in Valinor that his father had been fed lies, that it was in Valinor where Fëanor had first grown fell and fey. He remembered that the Trees had withered and died, and they had been plunged into darkness, a darkness that the Noldor in exile, and the house of Fëanor most of all, had been made to swim through ever since. A darkness that neither Vása nor Rána could pierce.

As he went to push back the tent flap, Maglor paused, and looked at the host of tents and campfires, and of the Elves sitting and trying to warm their hands. His host was diminished, as were the forces of his brothers, and not just through war and death. Eventually, Elves belonging to the hosts of the sons of Fëanor would decide that they had had enough and would seek their fortunes elsewhere.

It was a stark reminder to Maglor that out of the Noldor who had come with them across the sea, many had not done so out of any particular enthusiasm for the idea of reclaiming three lost jewels. Many of them had come simply because someone they knew and loved was going, and did not wish to be parted from them. Friends had gone because of friends. Children because of parents, parents because of children. Siblings because of siblings. Husbands because of wives.

"Could you close that?" a tired voice asked from the darkness inside the tent. "You're letting in a draft."

Wives because of husbands.

It was marginally warmer inside the tent, though not by much; it wasn't the sort of tent that allowed for having a fire, not without the smoke lingering in the confines of the tent and making it impossible to breathe. However, shelter from the wind and thick blankets made a difference, a significant one for someone who had never grown accustomed to living in bitterly cold weather. Maglor slipped inside the tent, pinning the flap down as he did, so that the wind wouldn't blow it open during the night.

"I sent the night watch to their posts," Ilmanis said quietly, not getting up from the cot they'd brought with them. She spoke Quenya, as was her wont; she never spoke any other tongue except at great need, or to communicate with one who couldn't speak it. On second thought, she actually didn't sound all that tired. Drained of all energy perhaps, but still unable to find rest. Maglor knew that sort of voice well; he'd heard it from his own mouth often enough, and hers as well. "And the morning shift have their assignments as well."

"Ah… Thank you, Ilmanis."

It was easier this way. Fëanor had never delegated to anyone, let alone to his sons. He'd claimed that it was not seemly for a father to press his sons to take on any portion of the work that was his, and Maglor and his brothers had had ample opportunity to see that while Fëanor could manage under such circumstances, Fëanor's sons were not so blessed. Maglor had learned early on that he needed to find someone to delegate to, that Ilmanis didn't mind sleeping in tents and on the hard earth if need be, and that it was much easier to focus on battle plans and troop formations when he didn't also have to concern himself with the allotment of rations, of who would take the guard watches, and other matters such as that.

That was what Maglor thought to himself, as he fumbled about in the now pitch-dark tent, moving slowly in the hopes of avoiding anything left on the ground in the dark. Finally, he found the bed, feeling at the blankets to make sure his wife was lying on the far side of the bed before crawling under the blankets himself, grateful for any greater warmth than could be found outside, in the bitter cold, the frigid wind, the snow glistening on the ground, even beneath the dense canopy of trees. She who had always been quiet was lying silent next to him, not making a sound nor moving an inch. The air seemed close, and stale, fairly buzzing with some emotion Maglor couldn't identify.

He was still tired, but suddenly, Maglor felt all desire or ability to sleep leave him. All too aware of the silence, he rooted about in his mind for something to say, staring up at the canopy of the tent, and not to his side. "…You left your instruments at home," he finally settled on. Too obvious, probably, but the only thing he could think to say, in all honesty.

"So did you," Ilmanis pointed out, in a tone of voice that might have qualified as a retort, tense and slightly breathless, if not for how full of quiet dread it was.

There it was. _That _was what he felt in the air, and not just here, either. All over the encampment. The air reeked with dread. But that she was sick with it too was, Maglor realized with some guilt, probably the only reason he had noticed it at all.

They had met in Valinor in the days of a golden youth long lost and now more dreamlike than a world of memory—everything before the Darkening of Valinor and Finwë's death seemed surreal and dreamlike to Maglor. Music was their shared passion, and the manner of their meeting, learning to play a harp under the same master. Two dark-haired, gray-eyed half-grown children would sit in the waning light of Laurelin and practice notes and scales, strumming fingers against harp strings, lifting their voices in song, though inevitably Maglor's voice ended up drowning out Ilmanis's—she had never had a great deal of strength in her voice, and even less as a singer. They had married young, not as young as Fëanor and Nerdanel, but still young.

Silence fell again, made even more profound by the darkness. Her breathing grew smooth, then shallow, smooth again, shallow again. Not usually one to be lost for words, the experience of struggling to find something to say, let alone to his own wife, wasn't one Maglor found particularly pleasant—then again, he reflected bitterly, he hadn't considered the experience of killing the Swan-Elves of Alqualondë pleasant either, but here he was, prepared to kill his kin once again if they did not surrender the Silmaril. "Did you have any difficulty finding men to fill the positions?"

"No," she replied swiftly. "Once I let it be known that soldiers were needed for the night and morning watch, I had plenty of volunteers." _Anything's better than just sitting and waiting_, she did not say, but both of them heard.

"Even for the night shift?" The night shift was always the one Maglor found the most difficult to find willing volunteers for.

"Yes, even the night shift. Frankly, I didn't see that many tired faces."

Vividly did Maglor recall the night in Valinor, one of the last, that she had told him that she was going with him. Determined she had sounded, speaking in a voice that brooked no opposition, but at the same time Ilmanis had looked pale, and had spoken unsmiling. Maglor hadn't noticed then. From where they were standing as she told him this, they could both clearly hear Fëanor and Nerdanel having their last great argument, and Maglor was fairly certain that everyone in the _camp_ could hear Curufin and Telpalma arguing over who Celebrimbor would go with. He had been so relieved that he wouldn't have to argue with her, been so relieved that he wouldn't have to face the prospect of leaving Aman without her, that he had not questioned _why _Ilmanis wanted to go with him in the first place.

Now, lying there in the dark, listening to her breathe, it occurred to Maglor that he had never really questioned why Ilmanis did anything. He did not ask why she who had always been quiet had grown near silent as the years in Beleriand passed. He did not ask why, every time he went on campaign, she went along without complaint, organizing the camp to the best of her abilities. When the time had come for them to adopt Sindarin names for use among the Sindarin-speaking Elves of Beleriand, Maglor had never asked Ilmanis why she had at first refused to take one, and when he had finally persuaded her to do so, she had settled on what many of the Sindarin-speaking Elves were already calling her, Gildis, despite the fact that she had never liked being called that before and it was, as she had said sharply, not a precise translation anyways.

And of course, there was the matter of why she'd said she would leave Aman in the first place.

It was a question Maglor now found himself asking of many of the Elves who had left Aman with the house of Fëanor. Beyond those who were already followers of the house, beyond those who had left out of loyalty to friends and loved ones, there were still those who had gone with the host despite not having either of these ties to give them a reason to leave everything they had ever known for the lands across the sea. Why? As far as Maglor knew, there were few who felt the pressing need to wage war over the theft of the Silmarils. Ilmanis certainly did not—_They are only jewels, Makalaurë, _she had said in disbelief when she learned of the oath her husband had taken. _Aye, pretty jewels to be sure, your father's greatest work, perhaps, but still, all this trouble over three jewels?_

_They are what cost my grandfather his life, _Maglor had defended himself hotly. _If we do not retrieve them, what does that make my grandfather's life worth? What about his death? _She had had nothing to say to that; the persistent look of incomprehension on her face said all.

Maybe vengeance for Finwë's sake was what motivated the Elves who were not obligated to come. Finwë had been a well-beloved king, even if some looked askance on his second marriage. Maglor could well-believe that there were those among his and his brothers' hosts who had gone across the sea in the hopes of avenging Finwë's murder on Morgoth's head. But Ilmanis herself had never been particularly interested in the business of vengeance and retribution; even as children, when Maglor had had some grievance against some other child, she had always urged him to keep a cool head. Unless there was something about her that Maglor did not know, Ilmanis wasn't one to seek retribution. She kept the truth of her motivations close to her chest, never speaking of them.

Maglor could not have spoken to the motivations of the unobligated Elves who had joined Fëanor's host in Valinor. The more he thought about it, however, the more Maglor suspected that he did know why Ilmanis chose the way she did. The thought was not a happy one.

"So there are to be five search parties come tomorrow when your brother arrives." It came as a relief when Ilmanis herself broke the silence.

"Yes. Are you still willing to head the last one? I'm sorry, I know you're not comfortable with doing so, but we've grown so short of hands that—" The words spilled wholesale from his lips, fast and without warning (_What is happening to me? Can I not keep my nerve in a conversation with my own wife?_) like a dam bursting its gates.

"I am content with my decision," Ilmanis cut in. "We all must do our part," she added, too lightly, in the sort of voice one would take with a child when explaining why that child would be going without some cherished luxury, such as an extra blanket or a soft pair of shoes, during hard times—come to think of it, Maglor was fairly sure he'd taken the same tone with Celebrimbor when the latter was a child, during the early years in Beleriand. He'd seen the sentiment reflected in the faces of many of the nissi in the camp. Under optimal circumstances, those among the nissi of the camp who fought in war would not be expected to fight in the front line, instead bid to take their place in the reserve. However, "optimal circumstances" was not something anyone had been operating under in a long time, and when the time for the assault on Doriath came, there could be no discrimination between gender in deciding who would fight. Some of the nissi seemed barely able to wait to do their part; others seemed to dread the waiting, and dread the prospect of fighting in the front lines. It was just another facet of the tension of waiting.

Maglor nodded, though he knew that Ilmanis couldn't see him do so in the dark. "Thank you. We need everyone that can be spared searching for the Silmaril—though something tells me it won't be that difficult to find," he remarked darkly, remembering the sheer brazenness of this young King of Doriath.

Ilmanis shifted her weight, and he supposed she could have been turning to look at him. "Makalaurë…" Her voice was sharp with incredulous disbelief "…you told me that the old King had had the Naugrim fashion a necklace to set the Silmaril into—"

"Aye, and Elwë paid dearly for it."

"—but surely you do not think that Dior will be _wearing _the Silmaril around his neck." She sounded positively appalled at the idea of Dior being so foolish as to be wearing his stolen jewel about his throat when an army set on retrieving it was practically sitting on his front doorstep.

"I would not put it past him."

"Be serious!"

This sounded like any number of conversations they had had in Valinor, in happier times when the worst either of them had to worry about was the running of their house and whatever arguments were currently brewing among Maglor's brothers (_I love you, but I'm not living with your family, _she had said to him). It sounded so much like it, in fact, that Maglor smiled and nearly laughed at the familiarly skeptical tone in her voice. "I concede your point. Dior likely would not have lasted as King of Doriath even this long had he not possessed that basic level of common sense."

What she said next killed the smile stone dead on his lips.

Ilmanis drew a deep, slightly shuddering breath, turning back away. "And what… what will you do, if Dior does not consent to give you and your brothers the Silmaril, and will not permit us to search Menegroth for them?" There was a shake in her voice that he didn't think he was imagining.

"…What needs be done."

She had nothing to say to this; her breathing still shuddered tremulously. She'd not spoken to him more than what was necessary for days after the massacre at Alqualondë; Ilmanis had taken one look at her husband, clad still in blood-splattered armor, white-faced and utterly bereft of any energy to argue with her or defend himself from recriminations, with a fell, fevered light burning in his pale eyes, and avoided him for days afterwards. It had not occurred to him then that that was what she was doing—Maglor was among family, and among his loud, boisterous family it was easy to lose track of his quiet, unassuming wife; too easy, if anything—but now it seemed so obvious, and Maglor realized that he had no idea of what she thought of the massacre at Alqualondë, nor of the prospect of killing the Elves of Doriath, if their King would not surrender the Silmaril.

He could not find the words to tell her what the Oath had done, what the longing to look upon and possess the Silmarils once again had done to him. He could not tell her that he felt as though he had a hole in his chest, charred and blackened, aching all the time, and that only one thing would ever be enough to fill it. He could not tell her that when news or even rumor, however unfounded (and there had been many unfounded rumors concerning the Silmarils), of the Silmarils came to him, the compulsion to ride out towards the rumored holder of the jewels and demand their return was nearly overwhelming. He had felt no love in his harp-playing, nor in his singing, for a long time since after swearing the Oath. To play or sing now felt like a pale, flat mockery of what he had been capable of before. He could derive no joy from it; at best, it was a means of trying to recapture the past, and never successful either. The only thing that could bring him relief now, Maglor knew, was the recovery of the Silmarils, and while he knew so little of Ilmanis's thoughts on other matters, he had the feeling that he knew exactly what she would make of that.

There was a long silence after this, Maglor's only reprieve from total silence the howling of the fierce winter wind, battering against the tent canvas. He did not think that Ilmanis had fallen asleep; he could still hear the sharp crest and fall of her breath, and it was not possessed of the calmness of the peacefully sleeping. Waiting, tensely waiting, for what he would say next. It might have been easier if they argued, if they shouted. At least there was a sure end to shouting; with silence, there was no such certainty.

"Do you miss Aman?" he asked finally, barely audibly.

"Yes." She sounded surprised that he even needed to ask. "Of course I do." He heard her lick her lips, draw another deep breath as though she was finding herself short on air. "But I made my choice long ago. I made my choice, Makalaurë."

Ilmanis reached out in the dark and curled her hand around his. Her fingers were warm, and the metal of her silver betrothal ring was shockingly cold against his own skin, as though it had never been taken from the snow-crusted world outside. There were no scars on her palm, only a harpist's calluses, and even those were faded, just as his were faded, nearly gone.

"Would you return to Aman, if you were able?"

He heard her sharp intake of breath, and no answer. Maglor squeezed her fingers tightly, but could not bring himself to promise better days.

-0-0-0-

The assault on Menegroth had been an unmitigated disaster. The forces of the sons of Fëanor did not regain their stolen jewel, but did find themselves with dead beyond counting, and to those who had sworn the Oath, there was grief and torment at being thwarted in their recovery of Fëanor's jewels, yet again.

Menegroth was now emptied of its inhabitants; they had been seen fleeing west, and no one bothered to follow them. Maedhros searched the deep woods of Doriath for Dior's twin sons, ignoring the bitter cold and the snow that even now was falling. The Ambarussa searched for Maedhros, knowing even if he did not that his searching was in vain, and Maglor was left with the burial of the dead.

Celegorm and Dior had died on one another's blades. Maglor wondered what his brother had thought, when battling the son of the one he had once desired to have as his own, and wished that he had settled his dispute with Celegorm before he had died. Curufin and Caranthir were slain as well, and Gladhrien asked him, in halting Doriathrin Sindarin, for permission to go back and dwell among her own people. Maglor could see no reason to ask her to stay—Caranthir and Gladhrien had had no children, and she was still very much a stranger to her husband's people—and granted it with a silent nod. Gladhrien looked at him, young and gray-eyed and tear-stricken, and their eyes had locked for a long moment, before she had turned and gone, calling to servants who had come with her from the land of her forefathers. She mounted her horse and rode away, out of history.

Another had gone out of history this day, just as quietly as Gladhrien. Two of the search parties into the more remote sections of the Thousand Caves had met with unexpected resistance. The search parties had been only lightly armed; weapons were another thing in short supply nowadays. They had been unprepared to battle the desperate defenders of the caves.

Perhaps it was the work of the cold, but by the time they bore her body back to him, her skin was already cool to the touch. She had died on the spears of the Doriathrin soldiers, along with all but two of the party that had gone down into the caves with her. Bending low over her, Maglor reached out and touched Ilmanis's hand, and found it stiff and lifeless, now as chill as the metal of her betrothal ring.

He had wept for his brothers, but did not for her. By the time her body was borne back to him, he was exhausted, gray-faced and red-eyed, drained of tears, and barely able to find the energy to order those who remained to bury the dead, let alone weep. It… The sight of Ilmanis lying dead on the ground did not seem at all real to Maglor. It did not seem real. The cold earth had her body, Lord Námo had her soul, and nothing could have seemed more unreal and dreamlike.

There was something more Maglor had wanted to ask her. But it was too late now, and that was often how it was: He tended to miss such things, and not remember until it didn't matter anymore.

* * *

**Moriquendë**—"Elf of darkness"; any Elf that had not travelled to Aman, especially one who had never seen the light of the Two Trees (plural: Moriquendi)  
**Laiquendi**—"Green-elves", specifically of Ossiriand. Given that Caranthir is mentioned as one of Fëanor's sons likely to be married, and that Ossiriand is close to where Caranthir once ruled, it seemed like a plausible choice for his wife's place of origin (presuming that said wife didn't come from Aman, to start with)  
**Rána**—the name given by the Noldor for the Moon  
**Vása**—the name given by the Noldor for the Sun  
**Nissi—**women (singular: nís)  
**Naugrim**—Dwarves


End file.
